Hello all! So, this is my first crack at a fanfic in dare I say YEARS. I'm quite rusty, so bear with me. This is also my first crack at writing anything remotely smutty.
Rated M for a reason. Violence, torture, forced sex, mild bdsm. Also plenty of angst and Sherlolly fluff.
Molly Hooper led a seemingly thrilling life. A successful and distinguished pathologist at St. Bart's hospital in London, her mousy appearance and shy nature had done little to hinder her academic and professional reputation. That is, until him.
His dark curls; alabaster complexion and ice blue eyes left her breathless and jittery, effectively eliminating her professional reputation as a calm, collected and intellectually powerful woman. Day in and out Sherlock Holmes would barge into her lab, reducing molly into a quivering puddle. It was humiliating.
It was infuriating. But mostly it was cruel.
Molly had a habit of wearing her heart on her sleeve. This was something Sherlock was painfully aware of and thus used to his advantage on a regular basis. To him, she was a mere tool. Useful and accommodating, in every way, ready at his beckoning call.
It was late one night on her walk home from another day at the morgue, when everything changed.
Sherlock was on her mind, as usual. She kept her head down, lost in thought about their last encounter.
Strolling past a dark alley, barely a side swept glance prepared her for the fist that immediately plunged into her thick, chestnut locks. Her head snapped sideways violently as her unknown attacker dragged her into the blackness before she had a chance to react in any way. A small squeal escaped her lips but was silenced as a hand clasped roughly around her face, completely covering her mouth. The other hand she felt had found her right wrist, twisting it painfully and pinning it to her back.
They drew backwards, farther into the darkness. Molly was frantic, and struggling as hard as she could. Her attacker was no more than a half a foot taller than her, so she prayed silently that a big enough struggle would dissuade him. Unfortunately she quickly discovered that his iron grip on her was too powerful, and she steadily began to tire from her efforts.
His hot ragged breath on the back of her neck sent shudders down Molly's spine as the fight in her began to die. A familiar whisper found its way into her left ear, followed by a maniacal wave of laughter that left her paralyzed with fear.
"Oh hi there, molly! It's been ages, hasn't it? Why don't we catch up?"
Squeezing her eyes closed tightly, Molly began furiously shaking her head. The laughter stopped abruptly and she felt herself suddenly spun around and driven into a nearby wall, hard. The back of her head collided with brick and she gasped, dazed. Her eyes were slits, and everything before her was blurred, but slowly, Jim Moriarty's glittering black eyes and smarmy grin slowly came into focus. His hands were wrapped tightly around her biceps; pinning her to the wall. Her hands were slowly beginning to go numb from the pressure.
"Oh I've missed spending time with you, little Molly." Moriarty hissed. His voice was... excited. Anxious, even. "So tell me my lamb, have you missed me?"
Molly's head had slumped foreword, her skull pounding in a way she had never experienced. Suddenly the palm of Moriarty's right hand collided with her cheek, sending waves of shock and startling pain through Molly's expression. She felt his powerful hands wrap around her throat, squeezing hard and began to thrash out, panicked and disoriented, but she wasn't strong enough. Moments later Molly was on her knees, fingers weakly tugging at his wrists. Jim Moriarty, the arch nemesis of Sherlock Holmes was murdering her in an alley 3 blocks from her lonely single bedroom apartment. He wasn't supposed to be alive, let alone following her around London. Nothing made any sense anymore.
Blackness began to ebb around the corners of her vision, when the hands suddenly released, allowing the side of her head to connect to the pavement. The last thing Molly Hooper could recall was Jim Moriarty leaning in close to her ear. "Send Sherlock my love..." he hissed, then stood, straightened himself and returned to a silent street, disappearing around a corner.
Then there was nothing.
****
John was eating toast with jam over his morning newspaper 7 hours later when his mobile began to vibrate on the table. Sherlock was crouched in his usual position on his armchair, his fingers steepled together below his chin, eyes foreword, deep in thought. He brought his attention briefly to the conversation john had engaged in when he answered his phone.
"My God, is she going to be alright?" his voice was thin, shaken, Sherlock noticed.
"We're on our way, thank you Greg." John was already on his feet and toward the front door, when he stopped and turned to Sherlock, who was gazing at him quizzically. "There's been, an incident" was all John managed. His throat was tight, concerned, emotional... but why? "Molly Hooper was found half dead in an alley this morning."
Sherlock's mind stopped. Completely. It was an extremely rare occurrence, but he was speechless. In moments he and John were in the street, frantically gesturing for a cab. Something inside Sherlock had given way, although what it was, he wasn't sure. But it was bordering on crippling. He felt sick, a knot balled up in his throat.
20 minutes later he and john burst through the front doors of St. Bart's, where Detective Inspector Lestrade was waiting for them, his face ashen, lips pulled tight in a thin line of anxiety.
"Where is she?" Sherlock demanded and found his voice to be odd sounding, unfamiliar to his ears. He was sure his breathing would return to normal as soon as they found her.
"Follow me," Lestrade spun on his heel and led the two through a series of wide corridors, stopping some 5 minutes later. Gently he pushed the door open, allowing John and Sherlock to enter the room. He was gesturing with his finger to his lips for them to remain silent.
Sherlock's eyes fell across Molly's tiny, crumpled frame and his heart stopped. His attention darted to the physical evidence of the abuse she endured that was exposed to free air. Her lip sustained a large contusion and she sported a black eye. Her head had been patched and wound tightly with gauze, indicating a blow to the back of her skull. He gazed lastly at her throat, which was black and blue with bruising.
"She was strangled..." John managed shakily.
"Nearly to death. Whoever it was that attacked her decided she would live another day." Lestrade responded, his voice heavy.
Both John and Lestrade suddenly snapped their attention to Sherlock, his face, mainly. They were attempting to gauge his reaction.
He remained silent, although inwardly he was roaring with anger. He didn't fully understand why, but he couldn't recall a time when he had experience this breed of infuriation. His jaw clicked which made him aware of his teeth grinding together.
"Where was she found?" his head snapped up, eyes locking with Lestrade's.
"Not far from the hospital. It appears she was walking home when she was attacked."
"Please describe the full extent of her injuries." Sherlock's voice was curt, and he wondered why he resisted venturing closer to her unconscious form. Was it guilt, nagging at the back of his mind? He shook his head immediately. Couldn't be. Sherlock didn't feel guilt. Not usually.
"Nothing too serious, she was lucky. Sprained wrist and a concussion is the worst of it. The back of her head needed stitches but she'll be out of here by tomorrow."
Sherlock's gaze never left molly's unconscious frame. His crystal eyes flickered in what John presumed to be some deep emotion. His mind was frantic.
Molly Hooper, the mousy, plain yet endearing pathologist was in a position Sherlock couldn't bring himself to accept: frailty. He never thought of her as ... fragile. But he could see it now.
Sherlock strode foreword suddenly, to John and Lestrade's evident surprise, and leaned over the tiny bundle, his grey eyes penetrating, inspecting every detail.
She was curled in the fetal position, her knees brought up close to her chest, arms hanging loosely over the side of the bed. Her large eyes were closed tight, eyes roving behind their lids, indicating a medically induced slumber. Her right wrist was wrapped in a tensor band, palm up, fingers pulled tight into a fist. The bruising around her left eye was deep purple, but not swollen. He leaned in closer to her face, listening to her breathing. It was ragged, uneven and shallow. Her attacker had strangled her quite brutally. The last thing Sherlock examined was the bandaging at the back of her head. It appeared the contusion was rather large, and had bled quite a bit. He shuddered suddenly, imagining her in some back alley, blood pooling around her head, and froze. This attack was meant to send a message, a warning. It was a savage beating, but not enough to fully incapacitate or kill Molly. She was supposed to live. But would she remember her attacker? The concussion that resulted from the blow to the back of her head could prove damaging to her memory. That paired with the unknown length of time her brain was starved of oxygen as she was strangled could mean she may not remember the incident at all. This realization left Sherlock conflicted.
If Molly woke up with no memory of the attack, Sherlock would have nothing to go on. It would make finding the one responsible for this extremely difficult. And Sherlock needed to find him. There was a burning desire to wrap his hands around the throat of the man who had left her like this, broken and bruised in a hospital bed. He needed Molly. He didn't understand why but the idea of her dying was
absolutely paralyzing.
On the other hand, Sherlock did not wish any more harm to come to Molly, whether that be physical, or emotional. Whether he understood it or not, she was an emotional person. The memory of the attack may prove to be quite traumatic, and could lead to a number of mental health problems.
Sherlock pulled back abruptly, stalking back to the door, and bursting through it. John was hot on his heels.
"What do you think happened?" he asked pointedly, struggling slightly to match Sherlock's pace through the fluorescent hospital corridors. "Just a random attack? A Mugging?" His inquiry was baited.
Sherlock took it. "Obviously not, John. This was... personal."
John was about to ask how he could tell, but he decided against it. He had a feeling Sherlock needed a bit of silence to register his thoughts, and his emotions. They may have been heavily guarded, but John was one of the few who could sense what Sherlock was feeling.
Molly Hooper was another one of those people.
Hailing a cab in classic Sherlock fashion, neither of them spoke again until they were comfortably seated en route to 221B Baker St.
Sherlock's hands were clasped tightly just beneath his chin, elbows resting on his drawn in knees. He was scanning through potential candidates. Men who may have something to say to him. His thoughts were constantly interrupted, however by the recurring image of Molly's face, calm and still, eyes shut tight.
Then there were other images, memories of Molly, in the lab mainly. It was more of a play through of her smile. Her bright, adoring eyes, and her brilliant smile.
Sherlock shook his head abruptly. John cleared his throat.
"Is everything alright, Sherlock?" his voice was careful. "Molly will be okay. She'll heal." He gave Sherlock a small, reassuring smile.
John didn't understand. Sherlock didn't really think he fully understood either. His lips pulled into a thin line. Instead of responding, he hummed his acknowledgement.
Mrs. Hudson was there the moment they entered the front door, her face anxious, her delicate little hands clasped together over her chest in worry.
"Oh boys," she gasped, her voice thick with paternal inflection, "Greg just phoned, told me about Molly, the poor dear," she lightly touched Sherlock's arm above the elbow to express her concern and sympathy, a gesture Sherlock may have found irritating if it had come from anyone besides Mrs. Hudson.
Their elderly landlady possessed an almost motherly affection for the two of them, and Sherlock had grown quite fond of her in response, obviously. Sherlock gently grasped her had between his cool fingers and squeezed it reassuringly, given the mood he suddenly found himself in, he would keep their interaction brief, but courteous and affectionate.
"Do not fret, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock smiled warmly, "Molly Hooper will be quite alright. Although I'm sure she'd appreciate your concern, there is no need to worry about her." His words were meant only to pacify Mrs. Hudson, although he found himself struggling to believe what he was saying. He gently released her hand and began up the stairs to their flat, as John motioned to embrace Mrs. Hudson and invite her upstairs for tea.
"Shall I put the kettle on then, Mrs. Hudson?" John inquired politely as the two ascended the steps in Sherlock's wake.
Already in his room with the door closed, Sherlock collapsed into his bed, his eyes fixated on the ceiling. He could hear the quiet conversation John and Mrs. Hudson were having in the kitchen, along with the tinkling of glass, more than likely it was John clearing up his science equipment.
"She's such a lovely girl, isn't she?" Mrs. Hudson was twittering, "seems horrible that she should have to go through an experience like that. My husband's sister was attacked as a young girl, much the same. She wasn't quite the same after that..."
"I'm sure Molly will make a grand recovery." John's tone was confident, deliberate. "She's tougher than she looks."
Sherlock groaned inwardly and rolled onto his side. Frustration was building at an alarming speed. Why couldn't he think? Every time he brought up a detail that could assist his thought process, it was all scattered by her face, her loving glances, and the way she lit up when he entered the morgue.
Hours passed and Sherlock's eyes had not left the ceiling.
What was going on?
Sherlock Holmes did not get distracted. Nor did he experience guilt, as he assumed that these images where a symptom of.
Was it guilt? Did he feel partially responsible for what had happened? Possibly. The feeling crept along the outskirts of his thoughts, nagging the back of his mind anytime his thoughts ceased.
Sherlock suddenly noticed his cheeks were flushed, hot. He reached up and placed his cool hands on them, and paused a moment to check his pulse. It was elevated. His breathing also seemed to be effected.
He felt as though he may be sick and suddenly stood, marching out of his room and toward the front door. He couldn't stand his thoughts any longer, If he could figure out who had hurt Molly Hooper, if he could punish them, maybe this feeling would leave him alone. Revenge would distract him, for now.
John perked up from his spot in front of the fireplace, clutching a book, and was quick to inquire: "Where are you headed now, then Sherlock?" His voice had pronounced concern.
"Out for some air, John no need to panic," Sherlock's voice sounded bored, unfeeling. At least that was the tone he wished to accomplish so as not to arouse suspicion. What Sherlock really needed right now was a cigarette.
He was out the front door and hailing a cab from the street in moments.
"St. Bart's, if you would," he muttered to the driver, pulling his collar up around his porcelain cheekbones. His dark hair had fallen in front of his icy blue eyes, only to be impatiently brushed aside. The ride to the hospital was painful. He knew it was after visiting hours at this point, but he needed to get in to see Molly. He needed information, anything to go on. Then he could get to work.
The driver hummed his appreciation when they arrived as Sherlock pressed a 20 pound note into his palm and smoothly exited the vehicle. A short time later he was in Molly's room.
"It's after visiting hours," The sullen secretary had snapped, eyes appraising him up and down. "Are you a relative? We only make exceptions for relatives and romantic
partners."
"Of course, I am aware," Sherlock smiled at her. His charms did nothing for him with other women; he thought suddenly, only Molly. "I am Molly Hooper's... boyfriend." The last word was difficult. He hated the term, and the protocol surrounding it. If this is what it would take to see her, however, Sherlock didn't mind too much.
It was late, the lights in Molly's room were off. Sherlock padded silently to the edge of her bed, found the bedside light switch, and flicked it on. Beside the lamp sat an ornate vase holding an interesting arrangement of freshly cut flowers, with a card. This hadn't been there when he visited that morning.
Sherlock snapped up the card and held it beneath the light.
Seconds later his eyes widened with shock. In elegant cursive the card read:
Hope you like the flowers, Molls. Picked them out special for you. Jim x
Hissing his distress, Sherlock bolted from the room, his knee length jacket billowing behind him. He approached the front desk in a rage. The woman he had spoken to earlier glanced up at him, clearly irritated.
"What is it now?" Her tone was clipped. Sherlock ignored this.
"Who brought flowers to Molly Hooper's room?" He demanded, seething. When the woman faltered he snapped a second time, "Who left this card on her bedside table. THE FLOWERS!" His voice was deep and loud, erupting like thunder. He shoved the card into the secretary's shocked face.
"How the hell am I supposed to know!" She cried, "I work the night shift. I don't know what gets delivered to patients during the day!"
"Useless," Sherlock hissed, spinning on his heel and returning to Molly's room. His eyes scanned the room, looking for something, anything that would indicate Moriarty's presence. It was spotless. The cleaners had come through not long ago, washing away precious evidence. Eyeing the flowers on the table, Sherlock approached the side of Molly's bed again for further inspection.
Each of the dozen flowers in the bouquet was different. A rose, a tulip, daffodil, daisy, a lily... they had all been chosen with care, neatly clipped and carefully arranged. The smell they gave off was a heavy perfume, a practically intoxicating odor.
A small sound pulled his thoughts from the bouquet. It was Molly, making strange noises in her sleep. Her eyebrows knit and she pulled her knees up closer, muffled squeaks of fear occasionally escaping her barely parted lips. "N, no! Please!" Her voice caught, it sounded weak, broken and petrified.
It was a nightmare. Sherlock gently grasped molly's shoulder, kneeling beside the bed. He squeezed her arm and shook her lightly. Apparently that's all it would take to wake her.
Molly's eyes flew open, wild with fear; her eyes locked onto Sherlock's and she immediately scrambled back, away from him, her speed fueled by her terror. In her desperate attempt to escape her fear and pain lent confusion and she slipped off the edge of the bed, her back and elbows hitting the floor first. She clasped her eyes shut tightly in pain as Sherlock bound around the bed, kneeling beside her, his eyes wide with confusion, and was that concern? His arms quickly slipped beneath her neck and knees, gently scooping her up and pulling her tightly against his chest. She was so light. Sherlock instantly realized she had dropped weight. At least 15 pounds... how had he not noticed this before? That weight off of her petite frame had surely physically altered her appearance. That was when he really noticed the dark hollows beneath her eyes. She was exhausted, weak and over worked. All of this before the attack? She was clearly at her most vulnerable, both mentally and physically. But how would Moriarty know that? And was it he who attacked her? Why should he waste his time on Molly Hooper? What was his motivation?
Sherlock slowly lowered Molly back onto the hospital bed, ensuring not to disturb the back of her head in doing so. As he gently pulled away he noticed a tug at his collar. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the fabric. Sherlock sighed as he went to pry her fingers away, before gazing at her face. Molly it seemed was awake again. Her breath was ragged, eyes wide. She shook violently.
"Shh, Molly it's Sherlock, you're safe." He whispered calmly. Molly coughed.
"He visits me, Sherlock. When I'm asleep. I thought you were him, I thought he came back to finish the job." Her voice was quivering. Sherlock's brows knitted in concern.
"He will never touch you again, Molly. You are safe now." His chest felt constricted.
"Please don't leave," Molly begged. "I'm so afraid, Sherlock, please don't leave me."
"Molly-" Sherlock paused, considering his response. The crazed fear in Molly's eyes made his throat clench. He did not wish for her to be alone in this state. She could hurt herself again.
"Alright, come on, shift over a little." Sherlock was not accustomed to this kind of closeness. In fact he usually found the concept to be repellant. Molly scooted to the opposite edge of the bed while Sherlock slipped under the covers beside her. He had never slept with a woman before.
He rolled onto his side, his eyes meeting hers.
"Thank you," She whispered. She was still shaking.
"Close your eyes now, Molly." Sherlock breathed.
Slowly the fear began to ebb out of Molly's eyes, replaced by exhaustion. Three minutes later she was asleep. Sherlock absently brushed a strand of hair from her face and before analyzing the action soon followed her into unconsciousness.